


I Love You, Franklin Clinton

by YummyYaoiSandwiches



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YummyYaoiSandwiches/pseuds/YummyYaoiSandwiches
Summary: Michael de Santa was not a man you would call "in-tune" with his emotions. He can only imagine what horrors this will bring as he tries to figure out how to confess to his young protege. To make matters worse, Trevor decides he's going to help. This can only end badly, or so he thinks. But he knows one thing: He can't let this chance slip away. It couldn't really be... love?





	1. Prologue

Michael de Santa was not a man who you could say was exactly "in-tune" with his emotions, save possibly for those of anger and self-loathing. Interpreting his own moods did not come easily to him, and emotional displays that did not involve throwing and/or striking things/people with chairs, were even more foreign still.

  
This fact had not troubled him for the majority of his life, until recent events, including the fact that his family had left him for some period of time and his children generally hated him, forced him into realizing that his emotional constipation was indeed a problem.

  
Admittedly, things had significantly improved from how they had been before- but they were far from perfect and, he had no doubt, would never be perfect. He supposed he had still ought to be grateful for this- after all, he had come far closer than he liked to permanently screwing up one of the few things that might be good about his life.

  
And relieved though he was that this was the case, that somehow, some way, mostly through awkward bumbling and well-timed screaming, he had managed to save it, these very same, seemingly happy thoughts were what currently had him in a rather sour, brooding mood. He had salvaged the situation, sure, but one thought kept playing over and over again in his mind, preventing him from enjoying what should have been well-earned relaxation. Or at least, that's what he thought it should be. Had he not put up with enough bullshit over the space of the past few months -coming out of retirement, making new friends, new enemies, almost dying more times than he cared to count, taking the biggest score ever- to deserve some mental down time?

  
His brain, apparently, didn't agree.

  
_I can't let it happen again, it said. I can't mess this up. I can't ignore it until it goes away._

  
_I can't let a good thing slip away from me like that ever again._

  
And then, because his brain decided that this amount of soul-searching and mental eloquence was strange and uncomfortable, it added: _Fuck._

  
One thing was for sure- he had to go about this carefully. He had half a mind to think he couldn't possibly do it by himself. Odds are, if he just went charging ahead figuring on winging it, he'd get frustrated, then get angry, and screw himself six ways from Tuesday. No, he needed to talk to someone about this... yeah. Someone reliable- which meant no therapists this time. Someone with whom he could take his time, get his thoughts straight, work through spilling his guts, and then look forward to some solid, and well thought-out advice. Someone who could help him...

  
... Help him figure out how the hell he was going to confess feelings of non-parental affection and perverse sexual lust towards a strapping young man by the name of Franklin Clinton.

 

* * *

 

  
_"Mike wants to know what love iiiiiiiiiiiisssssss!"_

  
"T, shut up."

  
And this was not that someone.

  
_"Mike wants Frank to shooooooow him!"_

  
"Trevor, I will kick your ass."

  
_"Mike wants to feel what love iiiiiiiiiisssssss!"_

  
Maybe, just maybe, one of these days he'd figure out why he always made such terrible decisions. Compared to this, he'd have been better off signing up for a premium account on Psychic Shoutout- at the very least then nobody would be singing at him, or so he told himself as he took another sip of his beer and tried to pretend he didn't hear Trevor singing something that sounded suspiciously like " _It feels like Frank's peniiiiiiiiis."_ under his breath.

  
"Love... is a tad too strong a word." He mumbled. The fact that he was not already actively kicking Trevor's ass was a clear indicator of his level of misery at the moment- either that, or his level of intoxication. It didn't feel like he was that drunk, but all things considered, what with the company he was currently keeping, perhaps for his own sake he should have been. Where was the bartender, anyway?  
"No, no no no no no, that's your problem right there." Trevor slurred, slingly a hand loosely around his shoulder. "You see, Mikey, your problem is, you gotta open up your heart, no, your SOUL, you gotta open your soul."

  
"My soul." He echoed flatly.

  
"Right, exactly, you gotta open your soul. Where was I? Oh yeah. Because, if you don't open your soul, and look deep, deep down inside it, you'll just be bottling it all up, running away, yet again, from the swirling torment of the, of the pain, and misery, and apathy, and lethargy, an-and erectile dysfunction that permeates through to the very depth of your being."

  
"How many drugs are you on right now?"

  
"Only the good ones. Now, the point is, Mikey, that only after you have faced, and come to terms with that horrible, empty abyss full of failure and hatred-..."

  
"An empty abyss can't be full of anything."

  
"-... and anger and suffering, then-! Only then shall you be truly ready to embrace, with open arms, the feelings you have for that stupendous, dark angel of ebony sexitude whose touch you so passionately crave."

  
Michael contemplated taking another drink from the glass in his hand. Then he contemplated smashing it over Trevor's skull.

  
"T, you make Scientologists look sane."

  
"You know, I have always thought that perhaps I missed a calling as a religious leader." He took a large gulp of his drink- some of it landed on his shirt.  
"It's easier than ever to become ordained in this day and age, I hear- zombie-themed weddings, whaddaya think? Plus, I'd be willing to look the other way on certain issues, like, say, if the bride and groom are brother and sister, or-..."

  
"You're sick."

  
"-... or an old, bitter, rich white man, who's technically already married, and a healthy, muscular young black man..."

  
"I don't know why I talk to you." He said, finally settling on downing the rest of the beverage and getting it over with. He rose slowly from his seat.

  
"I really don't. Come on, let's blow this joint."

  
"And by 'this joint' you mean 'my future boyfriend Franklin'..."

  
"Hurry it up, or I'm leaving without you."

  
The night air of Los Santos was warm, but not uncomfortably so. A pleasant breeze wafted through the air, carrying with it the scent of the big city and big excitement (which is a nice way of saying car exhaust and hookers- or at the very least, the hookers' perfume. From the smell of things, the popular choice of this evening was Destroyed Dreams No.5)

  
At least the evening sun hadn't heated up the car too much. Things were silent for a moment as Michael focused on backing out of the parking lot. Trevor, surprisingly, just sat in his seat politely for this.

  
Not that he could keep it up, though. His blabbering promptly resumed as soon as they pulled onto the road.

  
"Soooo, what does the wife have to say about this?"

  
His eyebrow twitched, almost imperceptibly.

  
"I don't wanna talk about it."

  
"Well, I for one, think this will be good for the kids. Once you hook up with Frank, they'll finally have a stable father figure in their lives."

  
"I asked you to come out here with me tonight in the -vain and futile, I can see that now- hope that it might help me figure some things out. If I had known I was going to kill you and bury you in the woods, I would've brought my shovel with me. Just have to swing by the hardware store and buy one, I guess. This'll just take a second."

  
"Aw, come on, Mikey. You know I didn't mean it. Except for the fact that I totally did. Besides, you know good and well I would never abandon a friend in need. I'm gonna help you with this."

  
"Really." Mike scoffed. "And dare I ask how you plan to do that?"

  
"Isn't it obvious? First order of business is to pay a little visit to my pal Frank."

  
Michael jerked so hard in surprise that he turned harder than was necessary and almost hit a youth on a bicycle.

  
"I will beat you to death."

  
"With what? The only thing _you're_ going to be _beating_ is-..."

  
"I will beat you to death _with_ Frank's dick."

  
"Okay, but as my last wish, I demand to be there when you explain to him what you need it for."

  
"Deal." Mike grumbled.

  
"Seriously. You say anything to him, you're dead. And no hair-brained schemes. No sending fake messages to each of us saying the other one wants to meet in the park. No setting him up to be kidnapped so I can dash in and rescue him. No roofies in the soda-..."

  
"Okay, okay, sheesh." He made a show of throwing his hands in the air, and due to being tipsy almost smacked himself the face in doing so.

  
"This is what I get for trying to help out an old pal. Geez, Mike, what do you take me for?"

  
"Oh come off it."

  
"You know what your problem is, it's-... Oh, hey, there's my stop. Lemme out here."

  
He brought the car to a somewhat abrupt stop, in as much a relatively safe manner as he was willing to muster.

  
"This ain't where I usually let you out." He said, eying the somewhat unfamiliar cluster of buildings on the sidewalk.

  
"Got some shoppin' to do." T replied easily, in unsatisfactory explanation.

  
He decided against pointing out that the area they were currently in did not seem to be offering much in the way of standard merchandise, and so shrugged instead.

  
"Catch ya later, T."

  
"See ya."

  
He kept his eyes straight ahead as he once again drove back onto the main road. In retrospect, he really should have expected this. He didn't know what was worse- the fact that he had actually gone to Trevor seeking advice, or that fact that, in the end, he didn't really have anyone else to turn to.

  
In the end, he supposed he was no worse off than he'd been before this encounter, albeit slightly more irritated. Still, he was certainly no better off, either, and even the alcohol had done little to improve his mood. His dilemma lay still before him, big as ever- what should he do?

  
He decided the answer, for now, was "Go home and hatemyself there.". It was a solid strategy that had worked many times in the past. Something halfway sensible could wait until tomorrow.

  
Trevor couldn't be right. It couldn't possibly be...

  
_Love?_

  
Shit, what was he thinking? This wasn't high school! Lord knows he was far too old and bitter and filled with hate to possibly feel love.

  
... He really needed to stop talking to Trevor.

 

* * *

 

  
Trevor watched as the car faded away into a black speck in the distance. He gave a happy little wave that most likely went unnoticed. When it finally faded from view completely, he pulled out his cellphone.

  
"Hey, Frank! Buddy! You home? Great, listen, I'm heading over."  


 

 


	2. Prologue Part 2

As inconvenient as it was to have a partially incoherent, drunken freak stretched out on his sofa, contaminating every inch of the fabric he touched with the nigh-indescribable stench that tended to follow him everywhere he went, Franklin supposed he should be somewhat grateful. Unlike last time Trevor had shown up drunk and disorderly at his house, at least this time he was wearing pants, and there were no angry female body-builders in sight. (Although, shuddering at the very memory, he had still made sure to lock the door and close all the curtains after letting him in, just in case.)

  
"Come on, Frankie, it wasn't that bad. You and I both know they were only after me because they wanted me." He rolled lazily around the cushions. "That's just what happens to the ladies when they catch a glimpse of the Mighty Friggate of Destruction."

  
"The booze is clouding your brain even more than it normally is, dumbass. Besides that, it was more like the Tugboat of Chaos. And believe me, I caught more than a glimpse."

  
"Hehe. 'Tugboat of Chaos'. You wanna _tug_ on my boat of chaos, ladies? Eh? Get it?"

  
_You weird ol' drunk lunatic_ , Franklin muttered internally, and inched away to avoid the toe Trevor was shakily attempting to poke him with. Thankfully the other man couldn't quite seem to reach him, given that he had chosen to sit in the adjacent chair rather than share the sofa. If the other man had been sober, he might have chanced it, but inebriated, he refused to get too close to him for longer than a period of a few minutes at a time after the cuddling incident. Which, although he had told himself he was going to forget it, occasionally still reared its ugly, balding head in his uncomfortable nightmares.

  
"Ehehehe... heh. No no, in all seriousness, Frank," Trevor sat up abruptly, knocking the cushion he'd been snuggling and/or discretely humping (Franklin decided he didn't want to know which) into the floor.

  
"You ever get the feeling that something's missing from your life?"

  
"A sofa that don't smell like your stank ass? A dog that don't leave cow-sized landmines on my front porch? A PS4?"

  
"No, no! Something important! You know... like, someone to put your arms around at night?"

  
"T," Franklin began, in the voice he reserved for drunken adults and/or small children, which, if you thought about it, had a lot of things in common. "We talked about this, homie. You my main man T, but my 'snuggly, friendly, horny Teddy Ruxpin' you ain't."

  
"Pssh! Not me, stupid." He said. _Even though you woulda seen what a great Teddy Ruxpin I can be, if you'd have just given me the chance_ , is what he didn't say.

  
"For real. Don't you ever wish you just had somebody to love?"

  
"... Shit, well... yeah. I suppose so." He mumbled, caught off guard by the fact that Trevor was being serious for once, and that he was not in fact going to have to break out the pepper spray.

  
In truth, that was a pretty major understatement- the longing for companionship, not the pepper spray- if he stopped to think about it, which is exactly why he tried not to. He hadn't seen, nor heard two words from Tanisha since Lamar had gotten his dumb ass in trouble, and, lately, he had reluctantly accepted that he probably never would. Every once in awhile he'd go out on the town and find himself a floozy with fake boobs and a nice personality, but in the morning he'd send her off, and be left all alone in his huge house, with nothing but his ludicrous piles of money to comfort him. Which certainly wasn't something he'd ought to be complaining about, but the fact of the matter was that money couldn't buy you love, unless by "love" you meant "fake affection and admiration from a bunch of people who want you to buy them things" or, if your standards were lower, "a blowjob with a side of crabs"- and not the kind you order at a fancy restaurant.

  
"Don't be shy, Frank. Love and acceptance are what everybody wants, deep down. Gimme the deets, 'homie'. How's your love life?"

  
"Eh, it's... it's okay, I guess. Which is me lyin' through my teeth, it actually kinda sucks. But it's a'ight." He mumbled, feeling stupid and like it wouldn't hurt to be a little bit buzzed himself if the other man was going to make him talk about it. After all they'd been through, Trevor wasn't such a bad friend to talk to, once you got past the fact that he was a dangerous sociopath with a long history of violence, but still, things you didn't even like to think about by yourself were all the harder to admit to other people.

  
"Really?" Trevor feigned shock, and mentally began preparing himself to set up the kill as the fog lifted from his brain. "Why, I should think such a handsome, chiseled, rich young man like yourself would constantly find himself knee-deep in paramours."

  
"Guess you'd be surprised, then." He shrugged. "I mean it's... I dunno. Sure, I get laid. But it don't mean anything." He stared down at the floor and toed idly at the edge of his fancy rug.

  
"Rich, poor, gangster, 'entrepreneur', ain't none of it done me any real favors when it comes to finding someone who wants to be around me just 'cause I'm me, you know? But shit, maybe that's just what happens when you grow up black and crazy in LS."

  
"Aw, don't give up, Frank. Why, I'll bet the one that you've been waiting for is practically right under your nose. It always happens when you least expect it." Trevor tried and failed to suppress a grin. This was going even better than he'd thought.

  
"If you say so, dawg." He shrugged again, then, trying to push the conversation in a more jovial direction while simultaneously moving off subject, he continued, "But what the hell, man, what is this, a slumber party? You bein' all deep and shit. Next we gonna paint each others' toes and talk about cute dudes?" He teased.

  
"I won't tell anyone if you won't. And I want mine orange, with glitter."

  
"Tell you what, you stick those dirty dogs in a nice chemical bath for a couple days and rinse off with a power washer, I'll go out and buy the mani-pedi kit." He allowed himself a light chuckle. Yeah, a chemical bath, a power washer, and scrape off the first few layers of skin. After that, if he wore surgical gloves, maybe he wouldn't get gonorrhea-syphillis-herpal-athlete's foot on contact.

  
"What about you the, homie? You got a pretty lady tied up in the basement? You and Mike gonna have a fairy tale wedding in Vegas and run away to raise alpacas?"

  
"Of course not. But you might."

  
"Say what?"

  
"Nothing, nothing! I didn't say anything. Say, buddy, how about a drink? I'm startin' to lose my buzz. I know for a fact you're up to your eyeballs in booze in that fancy-ass kitchen of yours. What say we hang awhile and keep chatting?"

  
Franklin considered this for a moment. He knew for a fact that if he got drunk with Trevor, he'd probably be swearing like a sailor while cleaning up piles of vomit in the morning, if Chop didn't get to them first.

  
Then again, if he just limited the two of them both to a few drinks each, it would probably be alright, he reasoned. Besides, it wasn't like he really had anything better to do this evening...

  
"Yeah, sure," He conceded, standing up to make his way to the kitchen. "But I'm cuttin' your ass off after a couple."

  
"You're such a sweetheart, Frankie my boy." His grin broadened as the other man disappeared into the kitchen. Let Operation Cupid begin. He could just see it now. For soon, master match-maker Trevor Phillips would work his specialized brand of unholy magic, and two lost souls would come together as one, like a vanilla ice-cream cone with a chocolate swirl.

  
Little did any of them know what bizarre chain of events would result from one seemingly innocent evening of confessions and alcohol...  


* * *

 

  
Michael lay in bed, staring angrily up at the ceiling. He wondered, not for the first time, when exactly it was that he'd crossed over into Rainbow Land.

  
It wasn't as if he'd ever had anything against gay people, mind you. There were already far too many entries on the list of things he despised to add anyone or anything that didn't deserve it. But seriously... what kind of sad old man gets his first man-crush in his forties? On a guy old enough to be his son, no less. Why couldn't anything in his life ever be simple? What had he done to deserve this? ... Don't answer that, his brain added quickly.

  
Maybe this was just a strange and perverted mid-life crisis- a possibility he mulled over and then disregarded for approximately the millionth time. He was about the right age, sure, but as far as he could tell, most people decided that they suddenly needed brand new sports cars (which he already had) or swimming pools (which he already had) or a six-pack (which he admittedly did not have), not, as in his case, a younger boyfriend. Then again, trophy wives were a common mid-life crisis desire, but why the same-sex angle?

  
He didn't know when it was he had started to fall for Frank. He didn't know why it was he had started to fall for Frank. But here he was, angry, confused, frustrated, and inexplicably lovesi-... lustsick.

  
It had to be lust. Affectionate lust, but still just lust. Trevor could not in any way, shape, or form, be onto something. This was all... this was crazy. He couldn't... it couldn't...

  
_You know what it is. And it ain't just you being a creepy old perv. And if you let this slip by, you'll regret it forever._

  
Mike mumbled something incoherent as he angrily rolled over in bed. If his internal voice had a face, he would punch it in the balls.

  
That was the last clear thought he was able to formulate before slipping into a fitful slumber. And even then, he knew that little voice in his head was right.


End file.
